by Daniel Romo
She typed furiously on her laptop, excessively straight-laced and homely. Her tan loafers firmly planted on the carpet indicated she never had sex. She captivated me nonetheless. I wondered what she was writing so hard, and thought maybe she was a poet too, and if so, would she rather dine with Rumi, or Bukowski, or maybe Plath? She paused for a moment holding her bangs between her fingers, and I thought Plath. Definitely Plath.
Daniel Romo teaches high school creative writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He has been recently published in Monkeybicycle, 50 to 1, and The November 3rd Club. He is an MFA candidate at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found here.